Out of the Blue
by jilduck
Summary: A story about Kuja when he was younger, and how he felt when he found out that Zidane was going to replace him as the Angel of Death. . .


'Ello to y'all who're reading this! This ...."story" is my first attempt at fanfiction which I'll actually have people read! Yay! So be a kind, wonderful, person/creature/whatever you might be and review, but please, no flames! I'm a sensitive person/creature/whatever I might be, y'know. . . .Anyway, enjoy my first (and rather crappy) piece of fanfic writing about poor Kuja-chan's mysterious past. . . . ~ Shippou-chan  
  
Kuja, Garland, Zidane, and all the other FFIX characters are properties of Squaresoft. I don't own them. I just make them do my bidding, for I am the writer-god. Muahahahahaha! Hear me roar! (Ok, I'll shut up now. . . )   
  
~Out of the Blue~  
  
The soft blue glow of the light seemed to envelop everything in its wake. It pulsated, as if it were alive, had a heartbeat, and filled the crevasses and rifts in the planet's surface with its haunting, energy-draining existence. Hundreds of pairs of dull green eyes stared passively into its depths, their gaze empty, as if they held no life. Tails twitched slightly in rhythm to the pulse of the light, all together, in uniform. The creatures, all the same, stood silently together, doing nothing more except stare at the blue light which made up their existence. All except for one.  
He was alone, apart from the rest. He slept peacefully while the others stared at the blue light that emitted from the depths of Terra. At first glance, one could tell he was different, special. He seemed younger than all the others, no more than seven or eight years of age. And unlike them, he was built differently, as if he had been created for a greater purpose. They were all uniform, with course, scruffy, short blonde hair, muscular arms, wide hips, feline-like tails, and pink and white garments. But the boy didn't even much resemble the rest of his kind. He was incredibly beautiful. His pale skin, almost as pale as that of a corpse, his long, feathery, silky, silver-lavender hair, his dark, sweet lips, his slender, shapely form; they all added to the beauty that was the boy. His chest rose and fell as he breathed in and out softly, his white, furry tail twitched ever so slightly while he dreamed of a new life, a good one. A slight breeze blew over the boy, ruffling his hair and clothing. He shivered and pulled his body closer to the wall which he lay huddled against. He longed for warmth, for someone to hold him close, like a mother and her newborn son. But he was always pushed away, either by his master or his fellow Genomes. He was an outcast. His master had told him so. He could not be loved. He was a defect, a failure, someone to be trodden on and forgotten. He opened his eyes, twin sapphires, and was surprised to find a tear splash his pale cheek. The boy touched the fallen tear softly with a fingertip and looked at it, studying it. It seemed so clear, crisp, like fresh springwater. But he knew that if he were to taste it, it would be salty and dry, like a drop of ocean water. He gently brought the fingertip to his lips and sucked on it, relinquishing in the saltiness of the teardrop. He and the tear were now one and the same. He was the tear, the tear was him. Nothing was different in this world. He was similar to the tear. Like it, he too bore an appearance, as a cold, merciless puppet, willing to obey his master. An angel of death. Inside, he was different. He didn't want to obey his creator. He wanted to be free, to wreak havoc upon life without the supposed "guidance" of Garland. He chuckled to himself, almost insanely, and smirked. He could do it. He could obtain his freedom. He slowly got to his feet, brushing a few strands of his flowing hair behind one beautiful ear with a quick flick of one of his slender, exquisite hands. It was time to have a little discussion with Master Garland.   
His footsteps echoed endlessly throughout Bran Bal as he made his way to his master's underground laboratory. He looked at the other Genomes with contempt, even arrogance. I'm not like them, he thought to himself. I'm not merely a soulless husk like they are. But he was more assuring himself of that than acting as if they were inferior. Sure, he was superior to them and he knew it. He was created by Master Garland for a higher purpose. To serve as the Angel of Death to bring war and chaos to Gaia, so that Terra might absorb its souls. The boy was different. He had a soul, they did not. That was the way it was. But somehow, the boy knew that soon he would be like them, not a mindless vessel for the souls of Terra, but something else, perhaps worse. He scoffed at his thoughts. He could not be like them. Never.   
He stopped for a minute to drink from a small bubbling spring that spurted through a crack in one of the larger rocks. The cool water filled his mouth and wet his throat; he delighted in the taste of it. He could see a strange substance pour out around the water, some sort of mist. The mist fascinated the boy. He reached out a hand to touch it, then pressed it against his young cheek. The mist, it felt so wonderful. He could feel it fill his soul, inhabit his mind, toy with his young heart. He giggled insanely, delighted with his new toy, the Mist. He breathed it in, letting it fill his lungs. The Mist gave him the feeling of power, delight, and he felt at peace in its midst. However, the pulsating blue light that surrounded him, drove away the Mist, reminded him of his need to see Garland, and his delicate features sharpened into a slight frown. He walked away slowly from the Mist, cupping a last bit in his hands and drinking in its power. He would come back for it later.  
It didn't take the boy long to reach the laboratory. When he arrived, he could see Garland's silhouette against the tank of pulsating azure light, but his creator wasn't facing him. He was studying one of the chambers used to create the Genomes, and he was smiling.   
"Master Garland," the boy said, bowing low to the ground in the presence of his creator. The old man turned to the boy, his tall form towering over that of the Genome.   
"Ah, Kuja. I am glad to see you, my Angel of Death. I was actually about to send for you, but I am glad you have come for me. I have something to show you, my pretty." He grabbed the boy's hand gently and lifted him to his feet, then brought him over to the small chamber which he had been studying so intensely.   
Inside of the chamber, amidst the swirling, dancing Mist, was a small figure, a baby Genome. He was curled into a little ball and his sepia tail danced every which way. His eyes were shut, but he had some blonde fuzz on his small head, the same color as every other Genome's scruffy hair.  
"What is this, Master Garland? Why are you showing me an ordinary Genome?" Kuja asked, looking up, annoyed, at Garland. The old man chuckled and stroked his long, white beard before caressing the young Kuja's pale cheek.   
"This is no ordinary Genome, my dear Kuja, for I have given him a soul like yours. This is your new brother, my new Angel of Death to bring chaos upon Gaia. And his name is Zidane." Kuja was confused. What? A new Angel of Death? He was getting replaced by such an ordinary Genome, not beautiful with long, elegant hair, but ordinary? It was absurd! He was the angel of death, not some ordinary-looking Genome, Zidane, or so Garland had called him. Trying not to look disappointed, Kuja turned to face Garland again.   
"Master Garland, I. . . " The old man looked down at his creation.  
"What is it, lovely? Don't you love your new brother? Now, why have you come in the first place, beautiful one?" He stepped closer to the boy and gently cupped the side of his beautiful face with a gloved hand. Kuja diverted his sapphire eyes from the gaze of his master.   
"Master Garland, I. . . I have come for my freedom." Kuja looked back into Garland's bearded face to see the old man's features contorted with hatred and rage. Suddenly, Garland pulled his hand back and slapped Kuja full-force on the side of his face, sending the young Genome flying into a wall, where he crumpled to the floor.   
"Your freedom, you say?" said Garland, calmly. "Well, Kuja, I cannot grant it to you. I created you; you are my slave, my Angel of Death, just like Zidane will be! What do you have to say to that, my pretty little Kuja? What do you think of your new baby brother?" Kuja said nothing. He slowly raised a hand to his cheek, where Garland had slapped him. There was a bright red mark there, like spilt blood on white snow, which would leave a large bruise later; it was already starting to swell. He gently stroked the side of his face, remembering all the other times that he had been slapped, punched, whipped, or kicked by his master. He buried his injured face in his sleeve. He didn't think well of this Zidane, who was going to replace him. But he wouldn't say it.  
"Well?" said Garland, temper rising. He expected to be answered by his creations, but his beautiful Kuja would not speak to him. "What do you think, Kuja?! Of your new brother?!" There was still no answer from the child. "TELL YOUR MASTER GARLAND WHAT YOU THINK!!!!" And with that, Garland kicked the small form of Kuja in his small, barely covered chest, creating a loud cracking noise as a few of the child's ribs snapped. Blood erupted from the young Genome's mouth, staining his pale chin, but he would not talk. "SAY SOMETHING, YOU WORTHLESS CREATION, YOU DEFECT!!!!!" He took out a barbed whip from his cape and brought it down hard on Kuja's bare back, resulting in a pained scream from the boy as blood spurted from the wounds. He did it again, thrice, a fourth time. Kuja bit his lip hard to try to keep himself from crying. But then he felt blood rising in his chest from his injuries there, and let go as it was forced from his mouth. And with it came the tears. They streamed down his swollen cheek and mingled with his blood on his face and on the ground when they reached it. He couldn't take it any longer. Clutching his chest and gasping for breath, the injured Genome spoke.  
"I-I. . .th-think. . . He's w-wonderful. . . M-master Garl-land. . .," he said. though it was difficult to speak with fractured ribs. He could feel the blood climbing up his throat again, threatening to spill.   
"Good little Kuja, good little dove," cooed Garland as he bent in close to Kuja's face, kissing him gently on the cheek. "I think he'll make a fine Angel of Death, unlike my beautiful defect. Now goodbye then, pretty Kuja, I shall see you in the morning, injured or not. Do not defy me again, little bird." Kuja looked up at Garland and nodded, and the old man smiled warmly and left, but not before lashing the whip across Kuja's back a last time. The boy collapsed in a pool of his own blood.   
Kuja cried to himself. How he wished to be freed of the torture, to have Garland love him like his own son, not as some creation that can be toyed with as easily as a caged bird. He moaned as he tried to lift himself from the ground, but it was too painful to bear, so with an anguished cry, his battered body fell to the earth with a dull thud. He coughed, more blood erupting from his mouth and flowing onto the ground like a river. He could feel it flow steadily from the wounds on his back, drenching his hair and his garments. He felt so weak, like he could just float away right there. . . .  
No. He must survive. He must prove to Garland that he is worthy of being the true Angel of Death. He must not be surpassed by an ordinary Genome, like Zidane. Kuja glared with contempt at the baby in the tank, hating it for living, hating it for taking his place. Zidane, Kuja thought, I will not let you surpass me. I will destroy you someday. . . brother. And with that, Kuja looked away from the baby Genome and into the depths of the pulsating blue light which shone in through a window in the laboratory. He felt it beat in rhythm with his own, aching heart and seemed to be entranced by it, like the Genomes without souls who had nothing better to do, though they claimed that they hated the light; it bothered them. Someday, thought Kuja, I may be like them, a soulless vessel for the souls of Terra. But I must not let it happen. Never. I will achieve a higher power, and I will rise above them. I am Kuja. . .Angel of Death.   
With great difficulty, he pulled out s small vial from a satchel tied to his slender, curved waist. He brought it to his blood-caked lips and drank deeply from it, cringing with nausea at the taste. It tasted of a variety of stewed herbs, but it reminded him of ancient carrion or something else that has rotted or decayed. But it would help heal his horrible wounds. He closed his sapphire eyes, completely exhausted and weak from the loss of blood, and waited for the potion he had consumed to take effect. He concentrated on his thoughts, for some comfort within, but all he saw was the blue light. It had invaded his mind, his body, his thoughts. But then, in the deepest reaches of his treasured soul, he found the Mist. A smile played upon his beautiful lips as he reached for it, let it twist and curl about his fingers. He found comfort in it somehow, strange comfort, power. He became one with the Mist, it filled his soul and drove away the pulsating blue light of Terra which he so despised. And in his mind's eye, he envisioned a beautiful angel flying gracefully in the night sky, backed by a horde of creatures: dragons, strange black-skinned creatures with yellow eyes, griffons, all spawn of the Mist, with a strange-looking tree to complete the picture. So this is how it's to be done, thought Kuja with a sadistic chuckle, as the Mist invaded his dreams.   
  
  
  
Ok! Done! So let me know if you liked it, so maybe I'll write more Kuja fics! ^_^   
(I really should be writing Inuyasha fics, but oh well! ^^*)  
  
  



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